Alone
by sempiternity
Summary: Before the great Hogwarts there must have been schools that housed the famous Harry Potter. Yet where are the stories of the finger paintings, multiplication homework, and loyal friends. This is the story that explains why we hear little to nothing concerning young Harry and why it matters.


Why she had ever thought teaching primary school was a good idea, she would never know. The pay was abysmal and the runny noses of those energetic, little maniacs gave Paige Speller a never ending headache and constant stuffy nose.

Yet it was those moments. The happy little shining bursts of creativity, compassion, and sparks of brilliance that you could only witness in a classroom brimming with innocence. Those were the moments she pushed through for, and made being trapped in a small room with twenty odd six-year-olds worth it. It was those gap-toothed smiles, and the contagious excitement of the small miracles in the world.

But in the fifteen years she had been teaching, the years of chaos and hundreds of kids traipsing through her classroom, Ms. Spellar had never witnessed a sight quite like this.

The sun was setting, and sitting on the steps in front of the large, oak doors of the school was one of her charges. That staircase had been a place of tying shoes, crying over scraped knees, and a pavement for thousands of little feet, yet never before had it seemed so empty as it did now.

A little boy, with expressive, shy emerald eyes hidden behind continuously broken glasses, sat solemnly and stared out into the rapidly emptying parking lot.

That night was possibly the most stressful and crazy of the school year, and Ms. Spellar was just congratulating herself on another job well done. The small production had gone off without a hitch, with the exception of Billy forgetting his lines and curly-haired Susie hiding behind the radiator for a good fifteen minutes. The little children had plodded around on stage spouting out memorized lines, and the croud of parents dutifully clapped and cheered their young Romeos and Juliets on.

Yet it was over, and everybody was supposed to be gone. Left to warm homes and bedtimes.

All left except this young boy who seemed to have no bedtime, as he watched the darkening abandoned street, let alone no home.

As Ms. Spellar stood in the doorway, she couldn't remember the small child's parents waving to him in the crowd, let alone recall a face from the countless parent-teacher conferences throughout the year. Of course, the boy was quite quiet and well-behaved.

Oh, Harry that was his name.

She felt ashamed that three months into the school year and she couldn't recall his name, but it was not really her fault. He always sat in the back and never demanded attention like the hordes of the other eager-to-please children. No friends to speak of and never even answered when his name was called. He seemed to be in a constant state of dream that separated him from the living world.

You know, now that she thought about it, Harry did not seem to recognize that that was his name after all. What kind of family is never there to support their child and important events and then never says his name? No, that couldn't be it. He must be called something else, like a nickname, at home. And his attitude could just be in reference to a shy child not yet used to the bustling, happy atmosphere of the classroom. Of course, that had to be everything.

But no matter the state of Harry's home life, Ms. Spellar swore that he could not be ignored anymore. She would see him and remember his name.

She would remember.

She would.

She would

All at once a burst of aqua light flashed around the unsuspecting and determined educator. And something changed.

She would...

She would do what exactly?

Wait, what was she thinking about?

Oh never mind. There was so much to do to clean up after the energetic performance that night, and then all Ms. Speller wanted to do is go home and have a soothing cup of tea.

So away went Paige Spellar, clacking her high heels across the linoleum floors. And watching underneath a fringe of midnight hair was a small boy, who had thought for a fleeting moment that someone actually saw him.

And watching the boy was a protection, that shielded a savior from those who might want to harm him. Yet this protection had become a curse, and the boy grew and wept because he was alone.


End file.
